A last conversation
by SameSensei
Summary: Two lovers speak a final time. Warning for blood and character death.


He's convulsing in your arms, too light and too hurt, his blood seeping from his cuts and orifices , intermingling with involuntary tears. He is dying, and you hold him close, hoping the stains never come out of your clothes. It seems, in his last moments, the greatest of all beast masters could not tame the most monstrous of them.

The empire itself.

He moans and keens , clutching at you like you'll die with him. You want to, but you won't. He squeezes at your hand and hiccups, brown blood splattering, lightly, to your cheek. You don't mind. He chokes out, " Sorry, " and you smudge a little drop from his lower lip.

"Hush," You rumble back. You stroke his hair, the dye he's used since as long as you can remember fading and gone in most places. It's alien to you, the sight of him exposed, unhidden by the bright , mutant red he thought of as a nice, thick middle finger to her Condesce. It will be gone forever, just like him, soon. When they find his corpse, they will cut his hair off in its entirety, you're sure.

"No, " He gasps, big brown eyes wide , frightened and just so beautiful, " I need to –"

He coughs again, going into a fit, blood and mucus and tears spilling every which way. You rub his back and let him spew it all over you, the balcony, himself. You hope you'll find the chance to clean him up later.

"Zillyhoo, " He whimpers, "Zil."

"Yes, boy, I'm here. Now hush. You don't need to strain yourself."

He resigns himself to being held, squirming and drowning in pain. You kiss his dripping nose and he sloppily maneuvers his lip to brush your cheek. The screaming and bloodshed can be heard without trouble down below you, his men and your men and everyone else's men being torn to pieces. You both hate the thought. You liked this little bunch of new recruits, and you know he holds much more affection for his troops than you do yours. You nuzzle his cheek, and you think he's started to sob.

His wings are torn beyond repair and healing. He flew one last time, and it was for you. You want to thank him, you feel honored, sad, and angry, but instead you whisper, " You've been brave, wriggler. It will all be alright soon."

"I'll," He pauses and continues, rasping now, " I'll miss you."

" I know. I'll be missing you the rest of my days , and then some, " You rock him now, trying to lull him into some short-lived comfort.

It is ridiculous that you still call yourselves kismesises. In the last few sweeps, you have acted so tenderly towards each other that you could make the freak-of-nature prophet himself turn away. You're not sure exactly when the black began to peel away to red, but it may have been when his own matesprit died, with him so hollow and lost, that you first felt pangs of pity for him.

You just want to kiss and caress and rub away all the pain, all the imminent death that he himself is turning into. You want to tell him that you-

Well, that is to say, you and him-

You both-

You love him.

But you can't. You are frightened that the last time you see him, his gorgeous, bloodshot eyes so full of tears and blood , will narrow and he will spit acidly and sharply that he does not feel that for you, he never has, he never will, that he _hates you, what more did you fucking expect._

You look at him now, though, and you see nothing that could constitute black feelings. His expression is so pitiful, yet pitying, that your blood-pusher constricts painfully enough so that you choke out, " If you're really in need of telling me something, do it slowly."

He brings a shaky hand to your cheek. He smiles as the tears flow down his cheeks and under his chin, still handsome , warm and inviting , even through all the stab wounds and bites marring his body.

He motions for you to come closer , breathing unevenly through his nose. You would not think of refusing, putting your lips on his another time before you pull away, licking away blood and swallowing it.

He laughs. It's so wonderful yet horrible to hear it, intermingled with sobs and sharp inhalations. He kisses you again, quickly, chastely, before whispering, for the last time, " Leave your window open."

With that, your love is lost.

And so are you.

For a few moments time, you let yourself become a thundering beast, a great bellow rising from the pit of your stomach to your brown-stained lips. You stomp and pound your fists and just scream, at the ever-darkening sky, at him, at yourself, but mostly at him.

You beg him to wake up, WAKE UP, fuck, _please._ You burst into desperate and painful tears, clawing at his cooling body.

"I love you," You sob.


End file.
